Nostalgia isn't what it used to be
by non-canonical
Summary: Nick Cutler is gone, but not forgotten. (Past Hal/Cutler)


**Title:** Nostalgia isn't what it used to be  
**Fandom: **Being Human  
**Spoilers: **General for series 4  
**Warnings: **Slash. References to sex and killing; blood; grief; swearing.  
**Disclaimer: **_Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.

**Summary: **Nick Cutler is gone, but not forgotten.

* * *

There's nothing left of Cutler to bury, not even any ashes to scatter. It was all gone by the time that Hal returned to the house, the clothes inside a bin bag, everything else into the hoover. So when the others finally untie him, when they let him leave – and trust him to go out without a watchdog – the first place that he visits is the offices of Hutton's solicitors. He discovers that there's just enough of the old Hal left that he can flirt and charm the address out of the secretary.

The place turns out to be an apartment block, painfully modern – trendy is the word – but half a mile beyond the exclusive waterfront development. That was Cutler: always within sight of what he wanted, but never quite able to reach out and take it. It would be easier if Hal had the keys, but you don't live as long as he has without having to do a little breaking and entering. He hasn't lost his touch: none of the neighbours hears a thing.

There's a big leather sofa, and one of those new plasma televisions. A balcony with a stunning view – of the industrial estate. Several legal volumes, on a dedicated shelf in the bookcase. The other shelves are filled with clutter: Cutler was never much of a reader. As Hal recalls, they had other ways to pass the time.

Hal has no idea what he's doing here. He feels like an intruder, a voyeur, and he turns and strides for the door. But it doesn't seem right to let Cutler's death go unmarked. Hal pauses, fingers drumming out a pattern on the handle. It's entirely possible he's just wallowing in self-pity: nobody mourned him when he died. Nobody even noticed he was gone, and at least he can offer Cutler that.

The kitchen's a mess, and Hal dangles a couple of takeaway containers between his fingertips and drops them into the bin. He has to stop himself searching the cupboards for marigolds and disinfectant. When he opens the fridge, the stink of rot makes him recoil. Half an inch of milk has curdled in the bottom of the carton – Cutler didn't bother to replace the lid – and there's something furred with an alarming kind of turquoise mould. Wedged between the two is a bottle of blood. Hal slams the door shut.

He opens it again and stares at the rich, red liquid. His mouth waters. His hands are trembling so badly that he can hardly unscrew the cap, and he starts to sweat as he tips the stuff down the sink. He turns the tap on full to wash it away, but the aroma follows him into the bedroom.

Cutler's wardrobe is full of shirts, of suits, of slim, dark jeans. Cutler never used to put on weight, the way that Fergus sometimes did. Lean and hungry – always hungry. Hal shudders at the memory of Cutler's eager mouth. He's about to close the door when something catches his eye: a cardboard box, nestled among the pairs of shoes. He picks it up. It's dusty, but there are fresh finger marks, so he lifts the lid and –

"Jesus Christ!" he yells. "Don't do that."

"Relax," Alex tells him. "You're dead already. It's not like I can give you a heart attack or anything."

"What are you doing here?" He shouldn't snap at her, but he's not in the mood for this right now.

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

"This is Cutler's flat. I was" – feeling guilty; feeling maudlin – "checking there was no more evidence. Werewolf attacks, that sort of thing." It's amazing how easily the lies trip off his tongue these days.

"Have you found something?" she asks, trying to peer into the box.

Hal doesn't want her to see; he doesn't want her here at all. Cutler knew him – they had history – but Alex, she was just another victim. Hal draws in a shaky breath, and he's glad for both their sakes that the girl's already dead.

"Why don't you go and search the living room," he says, and she takes one look at his face and decides that that's a good idea.

There's a pile of yellowed newspapers at the top of the box. The 7th of April, 1955. The 8th of April. The 9th and the 10th. Every day for a week. Hal knows those dates, remembers them all too vividly, although at the time they passed in something of a delirious blur. He supposes it's part of the curse of immortality: never being able to forget the past. There's a battered leather bag in his room at Honolulu Heights that holds his own keepsakes. There's nothing going back this far. He never used to be the sentimental type, and it was a brief five years out of five hundred.

Hal lays the newspapers aside and excavates deeper. One of the business cards he had printed in a whimsical mood: _Henry Yorke, Sporting Promoter_. A ticket for a New Year's Ball, the Ritz Hotel, 1953. It was the sign of a quality establishment, Hal had expounded amid the wreckage of their suite, that the management would overlook anything if the guests paid sufficiently for the privilege.

There's a programme for the Festival of Britain, and Hal can still see the grin on Cutler's face as he'd bounded out of the Festival Hall to tell him about the cloakroom girl he'd killed. They'd taken a stroll through the gardens at dusk, and found a pretty young housewife on a day trip to the capital. Hal couldn't decide which of them had moaned louder, Cutler or the woman.

The last thing in the box is a brittle sheet of paper. It's stained with what looks a little like tea, but Hal can detect the faintest tang of blood. The ink is smeared, but he can make out some of the words. _Suspect arrested – illegal gambling – no prior convictions_. The paper cracks as he picks it up, another piece of Cutler's life coming apart in his hands. And he was wrong: it isn't the last thing in there. There's a tarnished wedding ring in the bottom of the box. Hal's head whips towards the door, but Alex is still in the living room, clattering through Cutler's things and amusing herself with a commentary on the man's taste in music and films. He thumps the lid back on, and pushes the box away. That isn't how he wants to remember Nick Cutler.

Hal sits on the bed. It's messy, the duvet carelessly thrown aside. A double bed, with two pillows, but only one of them has been used. There's a dip in the mattress, and Hal stretches himself out in that void hollowed by Cutler's body. He buries his face in the cotton and breathes: Cutler's hair, his skin, his sweat. Scent is the most primal, the most evocative, of the senses and Hal can almost feel the brush of Cutler's hand across the nape of his neck. The mattress feels warm to the touch, as though Cutler had just left it.

It's Hal's mind playing tricks – Cutler was never warm, not after that first time, in the cells, when Hal drained all the heat out of him – but it feels more vivid than the grey reality he inhabits now. It's been so long since he had anybody's hands on him; and he aches for that phantom touch, and presses himself a little harder into the mattress.

"What are you doing?" Alex is staring at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "Oh my god, when you said the two of you were friends, you meant ..."

For all her modern upbringing, for all her supposed tolerance, she's shocked now that she's faced with the reality of it. But by the time Hal's on his feet, discreetly adjusting his trousers, she's starting to recover.

"So you were friends," she hesitates, "tangentially?"

Hal snorts. "More like horizontally," he tells her.

But not only horizontally: on Nick's desk; up against a wall; in the back seat of Hal's car. Even, on one memorable occasion, in the confessional of the Barking parish church, while Cutler squirmed and bucked harder with every touch of the sanctified wood against his skin. The things Hal used to do to Cutler; the things he used to have Cutler do for him. Hal burns, but now there's shame mixed with the arousal, and queasiness churns in his stomach.

But Cutler had been a friend, inasmuch as Hal had known what that meant. A friend; a lover; a rare mistake.

"He was a monster," Alex says.

"He was what I made him."

"Then I guess that makes you a monster too."

Hal can't deny it; he doesn't want to. Even now, Alex still doesn't fully understand what he is, what he's capable of, and that's dangerous.

"I'm not glad he's dead, you know." Alex glances away, and her eyes gleam wetly. "I though I would be. I wanted it. But when it happened, when I had to watch – I don't think anybody should have to suffer like that."

Hal tilts his head towards the door. "Come on," he says. "There's nothing for us here."

He wants to remember the good times, but nostalgia is a trap, and he can't stay here and let its jaws close around him. They're outside, on the landing, before it hits him.

"Wait here," he says, darting back inside.

This isn't about how he wants to remember Cutler; this is about how Cutler deserves to be remembered. He'll have no grave, no epitaph, but Hal can at least give him a memorial of sorts. The ring stares accusingly at him from the depths of the box. A tiny piece of metal, but it's heavy in his palm, and it bites into his flesh when he closes his fingers around it. That's how it should be: he can't just forget about the things that cause him pain.

Alex raises an enquiring eyebrow. For all her mouth, she has the rare gift for knowing when to keep quiet, and he almost manages a smile.

"Okay," he tells her. "We're done."


End file.
